


XXL

by Artsada



Series: Subtext: The Series [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Episode Tag, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-06-15
Packaged: 2017-12-15 01:18:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/843641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artsada/pseuds/Artsada
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That condom just keeps slipping out at the most inappropriate times… Or, one author’s crusade to get Stiles laid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	XXL

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: For a fic about a condom, this ended up containing a possibly surprising amount of unprotected sex. You can now find even more porny episode tags in Subtext: The Series (this has been incorporated as the first chapter).
> 
> Episode tag to Season 3, Episode 2.

It’s sometime long after midnight, and until a few seconds ago Stiles was enjoying a very pleasant dream in which he was snuggled up in a dark warm place, surrounded by happy furry bodies. Now, of course, he is sprawled out on a hardwood floor with a slightly sore head and a slightly concerning residual hard-on. But it’s not like he didn’t know wolves were a thing for him, right?

“What the fucking fuck!” he manages after he gathers himself together a little more. He’s on the floor – he _was_ on the couch – and there’s a very angry/mysterious/confused/really mostly obscured by the darkness someone standing over him.

“You fell asleep on my couch,” Derek says, switching on the desk lamp. And yes, this much is obvious.

“…Sorry?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Derek is moving around the room, dropping keys in a basket and clearing forgotten blueprints off the table and other alarmingly domestic things. “It’s late,” he says, with a continuing flare for stating the obvious. “You should be at home in bed.”

Stiles is actually almost comfortable now on the floor; it’s quiet, and warm, and he feels strangely safe on the edges of that small pool of light. But… he was waiting up for a reason.

“How’d it go?” he asks as calmly as he can, but Derek is clearly tired, and there’s no Boyd or Erica so it’s clearly not _good_.

“You might want to wait until dawn before going out there.”

Shit. “That good, hey?” Stiles realises the whole lounging-wantonly-on-a-bear-skin-rug thing he’s rocking is probably not situation-appropriate, and pushes back up onto the couch. Then it occurs to him—

“ _Wait_ , is Scott--”

“Scott’s fine,” Derek says immediately, “We lost Boyd after the fight and decided it’s probably best to wait for day light to cool things down. Scott’s probably in bed asleep by now – where you should be.”

“I should be in Scott’s bed?” Stiles echoes with mock outrage and fluttering lashes “...Just what are you hinting at, sir?” Derek snorts, and Stiles feels a little tingle inside; he’s not sure the cause.

He does note though that there’s no mention of Erica, or the body, but wisely decides that in this case discretion is the best part of not getting his ass kicked. Besides, he can grill Scott about it tomorrow. Instead of asking the questions he wants to then, he just scrubs at the sleep in his eyes with the heel of his palm and runs that hand up through still-surprisingly-long hair. A beat later he looks up and Derek’s leaning against the table, watching him; dark eyes, dark mood, in a dark space.

“What happened to Peter, anyway?” Derek asks, deep-voiced in the quiet. It’s only then that Stiles realises they’re alone here, and suddenly it all feels somehow… intimate.

“How the hell should I know?” He says, and feels his heart beat tick up, playing for time. “Last thing I remember we were just sitting around, braiding each others’ hair and waiting for a boy to call.”

Jokes, he’s got ‘em! And he’s trying to think up some sort of riff on ‘my, what big teeth you have,’ but Derek is a real wolf, and this is effectively his den, and Stiles was never very close to his grandmother anyhow. “Okay,” he says, “Maybe I should go.”

Derek rolls his eyes like that isn’t exactly what he’s been saying since Stiles fell off his couch. “I _said_ you can wait until sunrise. It’s not exactly safe out there.” There's a strange kind of tension in the air, anticipation or apprehension or something altogether different. Derek's body language is telegraphing 'casual' as strongly it probably can, but his eyes are dark in the shadowy light and everything is getting all together a little intense. 

It’s not exactly safe _in here_ , Stiles thinks (but, mercifully, doesn’t say). Contradictions, contraditictions, and Stiles is beginning to feel out of his depth.

“Sure, of course,” he finally gets out. “But I should probably just wait in the jeep -- dawn’s not too far off now.”

He feels hunted, disarmed, and it's not really about the big bad teeth - not about the wolf, but the man. He’s trying for casual and up-beat, but it’s a pretty thin cover because he’s already sort of sidled himself off the couch and feels confident enough to turn his back when he’s made it almost all the way to the door.

“Hold on,” Derek calls from behind him, and Stiles feels a peculiar lurching inside.

“What?” He turns frankly the least amount possible, just a swivel of head and neck, and then honestly wants to just close his eyes.

Derek is standing in the middle of room now, pointing at a small dark square on the floor by his feet. “You forgot something,” he says.

Well, _fuck_. It’s the novelty-sized condom boomerang, comin’ back around again.

“Funny story,” he says, caught in a trap of his own making, and not for the first time. “That’s not actually mine.”

But Derek’s prowling, stalking, forward, and suddenly having the door at his back doesn’t really reassure Stiles at all. “What, you’re just holding onto it for a friend?”

There’s a rumble in the air that may or not be from an approaching storm. Derek bends and scoops the packet up in one fluid move, holding in out in front like a sword or a shield or maybe just a puny piece of latex, and keeps steadily approaching.

“Something like that,” Stiles breathes, because they’re face to face now, chest to chest, and Derek’s got him back up against the wall like he’s going to keep him there, no matter how. The issue is, Stiles is still kinda half-hard from his Big Boy dream, and… well, humiliation is another thing that kind of works for him. That doesn’t mean he’s going to take this intimidation shit lying down though.

“What exact kind of fuck do you give about my safe sex practices?” He spits, or maybe kind of splutters. “And by what fucking right?” See, he always swears when he feels cornered, and this is about as cornered as he’s ever been.

“Stiles,” Derek says, and honest-to-fucking-God bops him on the nose with the stupid thing, “maybe I just wanna be your friend.”

If Stiles were a cartoon wolf, his eyes would be popping out of his head, but then, again, there’s only one wolf here, and yes there was the stalking and the sort-of growling, but that can’t mean what he thinks… can it?

Derek flips the condom packet between his fingers, strokes his thumb over the embossed XXL without actually looking.

“Or maybe,” he says, bringing the other hand up to press against the wall next to Stiles’ head, “I just really want to suck your cock.”

Well, that certainly clears things up.

“Holy shit.” There’s definitely no ‘semi’ about his hard-on now, and frankly Stiles, like any other healthy teenaged boy, would do just about anything to get a hot wet mouth around his dick. Derek hasn’t asked him to do anything for it… yet.

“You’re a big boy, right?” Derek says, and sweet Jesus that is an actual twinkle in his eye. “You can handle it.”

Stiles almost chokes on that, and can’t decide if he wants to laugh or cry or fucking come in his pants _right the fuck now_. Then Derek’s tucking the condom down into Stiles’ back pocket and, yes, that is definitely a feel being copped. It also happens to be about as far as Stiles has gotten with any human being to date, which makes any decision left to him pretty damn easy to make.

“Fuck it,” he says, because his capacity for complex sentences is inversely proportionate to the size of his erection. “Do it.”

Derek fucking _laughs_ , and that is a strange thing to hear. Stiles chooses to count it as a win, and not a vicious slur against his manhood.

Derek doesn’t really seem to need any encouragement at this point anyway, or even much in the way of participation. He’s still got one hand pressed against the wall, caging Stiles in, but the other is tracing a leisurely path down his chest. Stiles is breathing fast – too fast – but he was never the asthma kid, so he’s happy to just sit back and revel in the slight euphoria hyperventilation brings. Derek’s stroking him, just a light tease of fingernails against his chest and Stiles wants to tell him to just cut the foreplay already but he’s kind of _really, really_ enjoying the way Derek is nuzzling at his neck.

“I smelled it on you,” he says into the hollow below Stiles’ left ear. “I came home and soon as I walked in the door I knew you were there, air thick with the stink of your horny boy slick and your need for a cock or a cunt or any fucking stranger who might have come through that door before me.”

“Fuck,” Stiles grunts. It’s not quite true but it’s something of what he’s feeling right now and it’s hot, it’s so fucking hot he might explode.

“Yeah.” Derek’s clearly not playing around anymore, if he ever was, because the claws are out and his t-shirt is never going to see another laundry day because it’s falling in shreds to the floor. “I gave you the chance to get out,” Derek says, “said all good boys should be in bed.”

There’s a pounding in his chest, in his head now to match his cock, and he says, “I always was pretty good at being bad.”

He’s rewarded by a growl and a playful bite to his ear, wet hot sucking kisses with just the edge of those big bad teeth down his neck, tongue in that hollow and hot breath like Derek’s going to devour him whole and he’s going to like it, come back begging for more.

“ _Please_ ,” Stiles whisper-whines, because his mamma taught him right.

“Yeah.”

Derek’s got both hands spread across his stomach now, pushing the small of Stiles’ back firmly against the wall, holding him together. The thumb of one hand is stroking, playful almost, around Stiles’ belly button; around and around and in like the fucking tease he is. Then, ever so slowly, Derek’s drawing four thin white lines on Stiles’ belly, dragging those wicked nails down until they’re tucked just under the waistband of his pants. Derek gives his belly a final fond little pat and sinks to his knees, predatory and intense.

“So does the contents match the description?” Derek teases, lips skating along that sensitive line of flesh just above his pants.

And, see, Stiles has watched a lot – but not, like, a weird amount – of porn, and while he’s clearly not packing something the size of a baby’s arm in his briefs, he’s never felt the need to shrink from the spotlight or prying eyes in the showers, if you know what I mean. Right now though, he is as least extra extra hard - harder than he’s ever been - and it’s a fucking miracle that he hasn’t creamed those briefs yet. There’s something insane about standing there, looking down his own body at Derek Hale on his knees; Stiles feels raw and bold and powerful, even though he is clearly not the one in control here.

His hands aren’t actually shaking - though it feels, _fuck,_ like his whole body is -- just vibrating infinitesimally in place – when he slides one hand down under Derek’s burning gaze, slips a thumb under the band and pops the top button. “What do you need, a written invitation?”

Derek slides the zipped down with his fucking _teeth_. Thank God those hands are holding his hips down, because Stiles is about to embarrass himself here for reals. All there is between them now are Stiles’ too-tight-tighty-whities ( _laundry day_ , okay?) and his cock is stretching them out obscenely, bulging out from between those spread metal teeth and it feels fucking dangerous and all Stiles wants is _more_.

There’s this wet spot, right where the head of his cock is rubbing – aching, leaking – and Derek’s nose is practically twitching. If he had a tail, any bets that’d be twitching too. Instead, he’s pressing his open mouth against that spot - hot breath, wet tongue – and he’s _scenting._

“ _Fuck_ ,” Stiles says, “fucking _please_.”

And thankfully Derek doesn’t say anything, just hooks his hands under the waistband of pants and briefs and yanking both aggressively, demandingly, down his thighs until they get a little stuck from where Stiles is kind of uncooperatively trying to spread his legs wide at the same time. Then his ass is pressed against the cool metal of the industrial door and his cock is hanging out, drooling like it’s really fucking exciting to join the party and bouncing a little with every beat of his rabbiting heart. Derek’s digging the nails of both hands into the tense meat of Stiles’ ass, kneading maybe unconsciously and pulling his in against his face. Stiles doesn’t even understand how he’s still standing, let alone how it is actually possible that there’s a fucking alpha werewolf on his knees rubbing his cheek against Stiles’ fat throbbing cock. Because shit, yeah, the feel of stubble on that sensitive skin is bright pleasure-pain and his ass is clenching, thighs shaking with the need to get inside.

Derek is sliding his wet red mouth down the shaft, flat of his tongue silky-rough and shocking, til he’s got his nose buried in Stiles’ public hair and he’s sucking at Stiles’ tight twitching balls with delicate care.

“Yeah, yeah, _Derek_ ,” he’s chanting, and all his wants to do is fist his fingers in Derek’s hair and just fucking fuck his face, take what he wants. God, yah, Derek’s eyes are closed like this is _bliss,_ lips stretched wide around Stiles’ sack, and it’s hot and wet but shit it’s not enough. Stiles has his hands fisted at his sides, digging his nails into his palms so he doesn’t reach for it, ruin it with grabby hands, but he can’t help it anymore and he’s whining (high pitched and animal), pounding those fists against the door. “ _Suck it_ ,” he says – begs, cries – “fucking _suck_ it.”

And Derek just straight-up licks his cock like a fucking lollipop, root to tip, finally gets his mouth on the head and it’s _filthy_. He’s been spitting precome for what feels like hours and his cock is wet, sticky with it, and Derek’s lips are already shiny with his slick, thick lashes fanning his cheeks as he sucks it in, lips tight and just fucking right under the crown. His cheeks are hollowing and Stiles feels like Derek’s trying to suck the fucking marrow out of his bones, just perfect wet suction and a tongue in his slit asking for more. No hands, just his dick in Derek’s mouth and all Stiles can think is how fucking huge it looks like this, just the head splitting Derek’s lips wide, the sick perfect shape of it pressing at his cheek. Looks like he wants to choke himself on that dick, and Stiles wants to slide deep, fuck a space for himself inside and watch Derek take it all.

Can’t help the shudder of his hips then, needs to slam them against Derek’s face, feel the slap of his balls against that stupid fucking square-cut chin. And Derek is moaning, growling, taking it - tongue rolling against the shaft and spit running unchecked out the corners of his white-stretched lips. Stiles is grunting, humping his hips forward and yes, _fucking yes_ , screwing his way down the back of Derek’s throat till he’s choking, swallowing, digging his nails into Stiles’ ass like this is exactly what he fucking wants.

Stiles feels like he never has before, something dirty and sticky and pure, and he feels like his whole body, all his blood and every nerve and every thought is in his cock, and his cock is fucking Derek Hales’ face.

Stiles can make out Derek’s eyes now, looking right at his face, and there’s a challenge in that gaze, in the way one of his fingers is sliding down between Stiles’ cheeks, just tickle-teasing at his hole. Everything he has is clenching and he’s out of control making noises like he’s broken because he fucking is; something’s breaking inside. His knees are shaking, and he’s kind of leaning his weight against Derek’s shoulders, and he can feel it coming, like a fucking runaway train to his balls and there’s no stopping, no warning, no coming back.

There is nothing like the feeling, like the sight, of his cock, his come in Derek’s mouth. The first spurt, bright-sparking liquid fire in his veins and right down Derek’s throat – he swallows, slides that fucked-out mouth back up to the head and he’s humming with it, taking the undulating roll of Stiles’ hips, and not letting him go. Then Derek fucking looks him right in the eye, opens his mouth and the next pump is sticky-white across his tongue, painting lips and check and chin and Derek looks like he loves it, like he’s fucking _grateful_ for Stiles’ come.

Then Stiles is done; leaning back against the wall and kind of amazed that his legs are even still holding him, amazed at it all, and Derek is still kneeling there, licking his lips.   

“I--” he manages, but doesn’t really have anything to say.

“Yeah,” Derek says, and how can a man smirk like that with someone else’s come on his face?

Derek pushes up to his feet, body warm and crowding close and there’s a strange look in his eye, not something Stiles could have anticipated. With almost tender hands Derek tugs up his pants, tucks him soft and sticky back in, and puts him to rights. Thank god for layers, because his t-shirt is still in tatters on the floor but his over-shirt is mostly okay.

“It’s light outside,” Derek says, but he’s still resting his hand – is that tentative? – against Stiles’ hip.

Fuck it, Stiles thinks. “What do you want?”

One corner of Derek’s mouth lifts like he can’t help himself and he’s leaning close again so Stiles must have said something right.

“I told you,” Derek says, break warm and close against his face, “I just want to be friends.”

Then his nose is sliding, momentarily awkward, against Stiles’ and there are lips pressed against his, a little rough and very wet, and Derek’s tongue is slick sliding, inevitable, irrefutable, against his and he can taste himself, bitter and real, in that kiss.

It’s pretty simple, and so sharply good, that Stiles is more than a little disappointed when Derek doesn’t seem to want anything more. Without anything more really said, Stiles is out the door and in the jeep and in his bed. Just an hour or two later and he should be getting up for school, but instead he’s pressing his nails against the mouth-shaped bruise on his hip, fisting his cock and sinking too-blunt teeth into his swollen lips.

 


End file.
